Glenda Burgess's Blog, page 24
June 25, 2013
Praise for the World
Writing poems, for me but not not necessarily for others, is a way of offering praise to the world... Think of them that way, as little alleluias. They're not trying to explain anything, as the prose does. They just sit on the page, and breathe. A few lilies, or wrens, or trout among the mysterious shadows, the cold water, and the somber oaks.
- May Oliver, foreword to "Long Life: Essays and Other Writings"
I respect and honor Mary Oliver's work . Her poetry and essays are truly about the world, the small things that catch her attention - the wild inhabitants and eternal rhythms of nature. She does not overlay or infuse nature with subjective emotions or human need, she simply engages. Gives it on the page as she finds it. This humble awe, Oliver's respect of the living, and her sense of the universal dance are what make her work, to me, insightful and grounding. Her sensibility more heir to Emerson than Thoreau. More singer of praises than intellect of treatises.
Lately, in the battles over the existence or limits of global warming and climate control, of crises with toxins, vanishing species, and population explosion, I wonder at the evolution of the human relationship with nature. Us versus them? Man versus beast. City versus wild. That can't be right. This mosaic of living things is only as perfect as each element of the sacred whole. And perfect and sacred it is, even in its incomprehensibility, its invisibility, its transience.
Nature is the pulse that is heard; my ear pressed against the heart of the world. I wander into the woods on a walk, or run the cedar trails. Stand on the bluff engulfed by a horizon exploding in sunset colors and know a truth I cannot define. The yellow finch, thistle, river bank turtle and child kissed awake by sunrise. The rising song of a new day some say only angels hear. Nature is our place of being. Our companion in this mystery.
So today I offer this poem from Mary Oliver's "Long Life," just one of her magnificent little alleluias.
POME: WAKING ON A SUMMER MORNING
Water
skidding down platforms of stone
ten miles
nothing to talk to but ferns
in the deep water
the eye of a trout
under a shelf of stone
not moving
no one will ever sully the water
the ferns will go on sleeping and dreaming
no one will ever find the trout
for a thousand years he may life there, gleaming.
- May Oliver, foreword to "Long Life: Essays and Other Writings"
I respect and honor Mary Oliver's work . Her poetry and essays are truly about the world, the small things that catch her attention - the wild inhabitants and eternal rhythms of nature. She does not overlay or infuse nature with subjective emotions or human need, she simply engages. Gives it on the page as she finds it. This humble awe, Oliver's respect of the living, and her sense of the universal dance are what make her work, to me, insightful and grounding. Her sensibility more heir to Emerson than Thoreau. More singer of praises than intellect of treatises.
Lately, in the battles over the existence or limits of global warming and climate control, of crises with toxins, vanishing species, and population explosion, I wonder at the evolution of the human relationship with nature. Us versus them? Man versus beast. City versus wild. That can't be right. This mosaic of living things is only as perfect as each element of the sacred whole. And perfect and sacred it is, even in its incomprehensibility, its invisibility, its transience.
Nature is the pulse that is heard; my ear pressed against the heart of the world. I wander into the woods on a walk, or run the cedar trails. Stand on the bluff engulfed by a horizon exploding in sunset colors and know a truth I cannot define. The yellow finch, thistle, river bank turtle and child kissed awake by sunrise. The rising song of a new day some say only angels hear. Nature is our place of being. Our companion in this mystery.
So today I offer this poem from Mary Oliver's "Long Life," just one of her magnificent little alleluias.
POME: WAKING ON A SUMMER MORNING
Water
skidding down platforms of stone
ten miles
nothing to talk to but ferns
in the deep water
the eye of a trout
under a shelf of stone
not moving
no one will ever sully the water
the ferns will go on sleeping and dreaming
no one will ever find the trout
for a thousand years he may life there, gleaming.
June 19, 2013
Tested
FOR HORSES, HORSEFLIES
We know nothing of the lives of others.
Under the surface, what strange desires,
what rages, weaknesses, fears.
Sometimes it breaks into the daily paper
and we shake out heads in wonder -
"who would behave in such a way?" we ask.
Unspoken the thought, "Let me not be tested."
Unspoken the thought, "Let me not be known."
Under the surface, something that whispers,
"Anything can be done."
For horses, horseflies. For humans, shame.
- Jane Hirschfield
This week a dear friend of mine faces a crisis of career and reputation. My friend, an upper midlevel corporate manger, has been caught in what is now a national scandal in her place of work that has placed her square at the apex of both responsibility and consequence. In ancient Rome, a general was expected to take a sword for Caesar in the heat of battle. In corporate America, in the heat of viral social media and trial by press, this is no less the case.
In the compressed moments of this crisis as it occurred, no time was afforded my friend to do what she does best - the right thing. My first reaction to the news was instantaneous: This allegation is not possible. This woman's character and values are impeccable. My second reaction: That matters not at all. My friend sits in a position of supervisory authority, which means her supervision is at question based on the wrongdoing of some of those in her division. Her corporation has suffered a severe blow to it's reputation, the situation has damaged both the victim and the staff involved, and the situation has gone viral, compounding the exposure and public reaction. It is up to her to make things right, if given the chance. That said, on a personal level, when under attack is it not our first instinct to withdraw? To hole up, head down, shield the ones we love?
I have not been able to reach my friend; I suspect she is not able to speak for on-going legal reasons as this situation plays out. But I hope my messages of love and support reach her. I believe that when the proverbial crap hits that mighty jet engine, we most need to hear from those who do not sit in judgment. To be reassured we are loved (still), valued for our true strengths, and remain well thought of. That the public court rushing to judgment does not include our inner circle. I think all of us would like to think we are this type of person: the true friend. And, that we have such friends. But there is something in human nature drawn to scandal, to the suspicion of a whiff of weakness or fallibility. And it seems the higher our aspirations or standing, the greater the secret public hope we stumble.
So this week, my small calling has been to put loyalty and support out there. To be a candle in the dark. All of us have our Waterloos, and in the world of corporate accountability and viral social media, we often fight those battles as one-sided wars in the public eye. Character and strength of conviction are the traits that carry us through, lead us to the next day. And the next day is where we find that necessary moment to share our side of the story.
Be the friend you would want your friends to be.
We know nothing of the lives of others.
Under the surface, what strange desires,
what rages, weaknesses, fears.
Sometimes it breaks into the daily paper
and we shake out heads in wonder -
"who would behave in such a way?" we ask.
Unspoken the thought, "Let me not be tested."
Unspoken the thought, "Let me not be known."
Under the surface, something that whispers,
"Anything can be done."
For horses, horseflies. For humans, shame.
- Jane Hirschfield
This week a dear friend of mine faces a crisis of career and reputation. My friend, an upper midlevel corporate manger, has been caught in what is now a national scandal in her place of work that has placed her square at the apex of both responsibility and consequence. In ancient Rome, a general was expected to take a sword for Caesar in the heat of battle. In corporate America, in the heat of viral social media and trial by press, this is no less the case.
In the compressed moments of this crisis as it occurred, no time was afforded my friend to do what she does best - the right thing. My first reaction to the news was instantaneous: This allegation is not possible. This woman's character and values are impeccable. My second reaction: That matters not at all. My friend sits in a position of supervisory authority, which means her supervision is at question based on the wrongdoing of some of those in her division. Her corporation has suffered a severe blow to it's reputation, the situation has damaged both the victim and the staff involved, and the situation has gone viral, compounding the exposure and public reaction. It is up to her to make things right, if given the chance. That said, on a personal level, when under attack is it not our first instinct to withdraw? To hole up, head down, shield the ones we love?
I have not been able to reach my friend; I suspect she is not able to speak for on-going legal reasons as this situation plays out. But I hope my messages of love and support reach her. I believe that when the proverbial crap hits that mighty jet engine, we most need to hear from those who do not sit in judgment. To be reassured we are loved (still), valued for our true strengths, and remain well thought of. That the public court rushing to judgment does not include our inner circle. I think all of us would like to think we are this type of person: the true friend. And, that we have such friends. But there is something in human nature drawn to scandal, to the suspicion of a whiff of weakness or fallibility. And it seems the higher our aspirations or standing, the greater the secret public hope we stumble.
So this week, my small calling has been to put loyalty and support out there. To be a candle in the dark. All of us have our Waterloos, and in the world of corporate accountability and viral social media, we often fight those battles as one-sided wars in the public eye. Character and strength of conviction are the traits that carry us through, lead us to the next day. And the next day is where we find that necessary moment to share our side of the story.
Be the friend you would want your friends to be.
June 10, 2013
Sweet Goodbye to Regret
DANCING TOWARD BETHLEHEM
If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the twentieth century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,
say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back
as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,
just as the floor of the nineteenth century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.
There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,
not with the orchestra sliding into the seas
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing.
- Billy Collins
My husband and I were sitting in the back yard yesterday evening, a glass of good Spanish wine in hand, chatting as the sun set. I had been thinking of late about regrets. The big ones. The thoughts that anchor the good night's sleep on the shore of insomnia. "If I were to pick one decade that bookended all my worst decisions," I said, "hands down my twenties."
In the decade of my twenties I made several of the largest and most important decisions of my life shaping who I would become and how I would live my life. Key decisions in that parenthesis of a decade were absolutely right for me: pursuing an education, policy work with the U.S. Senate and the U.S. State Department, and the experience gained and mentoring provided through the Presidential Management Fellowship.
Nearly everything else was a trip up the stairs.
On my own from the age of 18, I made the decisions and choices needed to be made as a young adult. Regrettably - perfect use of the word: "unfortunately, in a regretful manner, with regret" - not all of those decisions were informed, wise, or served me well. Yes, we've all been emotionally fragile at times we should somehow have managed to rein it in. Did not seek key support at times we needed to reach out, personally or professionally. Tried on relationships utterly wrong or went too deep into them. I chose the wrong type of university (twice); tried to finesse workplace politics without a developed skill set; tip-toed through life with my accomplishments and self-esteem bubble-wrapped in what Sheryl Sandberg in her book Lean In calls "the fear of being found out" - that is, identified as inauthentic, an impostor. I did not own my strengths.
As the hubby and I talked, enjoying the evening shift in hues from fiery orange to soft plum, I realized that although my twenties were the one decade in my life I would accept a do-over (if offered by that cosmic referee), this choice would be different for others. Do most of us have a period in life we recognize as the catch-all of our regrets? This makes for a very interesting conversation. Somewhere in the evening I had my small personal ah-ha moment: While the past cannot be undone, it can be set free. Forgiveness, forgiving me, is the answer to my regret. The way through the ache is to let go: forgive. You, them, then, when. Billy Collins' poem "Dancing Toward Bethlehem," offers us the sweet goodbye - humming the notes of what brings us joy free of "worry about what was never said."
Let us dance. My palm in the small of your back. Our hearts wise and accepting.
June 6, 2013
Curves of Stone
ANCIENT STAIRWAY
Footsteps like water hollow
the broad curves of stone
ascending, descending
century by century.
Who can say if the last
to climb these stairs
will be journeying
downward or upward?
- Denise Levertov
One of the beautiful gifts of travel is the tangible, vertical sense of history that settles into your bones. The knowledge that we, in common with the foot voyagers of the Levertov poem, are forever "ascending, descending" - following a common stairway. Making our way through history, through disparate cultures and across great expanses of both wild and domesticated geography. Our lives "like water hollow" the hard uncut material of what is Time.
Seated on a weathered granite stone, a circular "seat" in a grassy ancient Greek amphitheater in Licata, Sicily, I abruptly lost my sense of place. I absorbed the hardness, the truth of the sun-baked stone under my butt, and I suddenly "got" it. How many others had sat here before me, preparing to see the performance of an ancient tragedy or song poem? I experienced this dizzying awareness; a sense of time as an elevator. We plunge forward and backward, upward and down. All of us, everywhere and all the time. We live our lives in these narrow personal holograms, defined by axises of where, and when, and how. We, the "Who" of our stories, take humanity's well-traveled stairs again and again; overlaying the footprints of the many others who walked before us, who sat on our stones, danced our songs.
This sense of time as not chronological but vertical - a permanence, a layering of centuries and centuries of chosen and expended experiences - translated the ancient ruins and cultures of the Mediterranean in a dazzling new way for me. I was not witnessing, or visiting, or examining the world that once was. I was experiencing it. Tasting it. Smelling it in the wild grasses. Hitting the play button and stepping directly into projections of events past. The ancient world lives on in the old stones. It steps out of the shadows and kick pebbles at my feet.
Footsteps like water hollow
the broad curves of stone
ascending, descending
century by century.
Who can say if the last
to climb these stairs
will be journeying
downward or upward?
- Denise Levertov
One of the beautiful gifts of travel is the tangible, vertical sense of history that settles into your bones. The knowledge that we, in common with the foot voyagers of the Levertov poem, are forever "ascending, descending" - following a common stairway. Making our way through history, through disparate cultures and across great expanses of both wild and domesticated geography. Our lives "like water hollow" the hard uncut material of what is Time.
Seated on a weathered granite stone, a circular "seat" in a grassy ancient Greek amphitheater in Licata, Sicily, I abruptly lost my sense of place. I absorbed the hardness, the truth of the sun-baked stone under my butt, and I suddenly "got" it. How many others had sat here before me, preparing to see the performance of an ancient tragedy or song poem? I experienced this dizzying awareness; a sense of time as an elevator. We plunge forward and backward, upward and down. All of us, everywhere and all the time. We live our lives in these narrow personal holograms, defined by axises of where, and when, and how. We, the "Who" of our stories, take humanity's well-traveled stairs again and again; overlaying the footprints of the many others who walked before us, who sat on our stones, danced our songs.
This sense of time as not chronological but vertical - a permanence, a layering of centuries and centuries of chosen and expended experiences - translated the ancient ruins and cultures of the Mediterranean in a dazzling new way for me. I was not witnessing, or visiting, or examining the world that once was. I was experiencing it. Tasting it. Smelling it in the wild grasses. Hitting the play button and stepping directly into projections of events past. The ancient world lives on in the old stones. It steps out of the shadows and kick pebbles at my feet.
May 30, 2013
Thresholds
BOTH WORLDS
Forever busy, it seems,
with words,
finally
I put the pen down
and crumple
most of the sheets
and leave one or two,
sometimes a few,
for the next morning.
Day after day -
year after year -
it has gone on this way,
I rise from the chair,
I put on my jacket
and leave the house
for that other world -
the first one,
the holy one -
where the trees say
nothing the toad says
nothing the dirt
says nothing and yet
what has always happened
keeps happening:
the trees flourish,
the toad leaps,
and out of the silent dirt
the blood-red roses rise.
- Mary Oliver
This is a beautiful time of year. Even if you stand, as many do, on the threshold of crisis, unsure of your next step, may you find comfort as I have found comfort in Mary Oliver's words..."out of the silent dirt the blood-red roses rise." Take a moment. Leave your work, set aside worry, abandon ambition, step gratefully into the world. We exist at the threshold of possibility.
Forever busy, it seems,
with words,
finally
I put the pen down
and crumple
most of the sheets
and leave one or two,
sometimes a few,
for the next morning.
Day after day -
year after year -
it has gone on this way,
I rise from the chair,
I put on my jacket
and leave the house
for that other world -
the first one,
the holy one -
where the trees say
nothing the toad says
nothing the dirt
says nothing and yet
what has always happened
keeps happening:
the trees flourish,
the toad leaps,
and out of the silent dirt
the blood-red roses rise.
- Mary Oliver
This is a beautiful time of year. Even if you stand, as many do, on the threshold of crisis, unsure of your next step, may you find comfort as I have found comfort in Mary Oliver's words..."out of the silent dirt the blood-red roses rise." Take a moment. Leave your work, set aside worry, abandon ambition, step gratefully into the world. We exist at the threshold of possibility.
May 23, 2013
An Archeology of Lives
I have looked and looked
for myself,
not sure
who I am, or where,
or, more importantly, why.
- Mary Oliver, from A River Far Away and Long Ago
I was having a conversation with my daughter recently on the many ways her college major in Art History prepared her for medicine. The study of art was a path of joy for her, a genuine, lifelong passion. But an interesting thing stood out for her - the unexpected ways one passion bridged to another. Art History became a foundation for the study of medicine. She spoke about the ways understanding, cataloguing, researching, and appreciating art teaches you to notice details; trains you to retain enormous amounts of relevant, sometimes incomplete data; underscores the importance of provenance (diagnosis); and the subjective role of interpretation. Learning to see, she said, comes before knowing what it is you're looking at.
This thought has stayed with me. Not long ago I had the experience, as many of us have, of helping someone close down a house. The house was on the market, the marriage unfortunately ended, the kids grown and moved away, and the "stuff" of the house worn and unneeded. As I helped to sort and toss, piling things for charity, for the dump, for their kids' storage, I thought about all the ways in which our stuff stands as this great, strange emporium of our lives. An archeology: A personal imprint left behind of those who owned and used these things. A room of more than 200 used 1000-piece puzzle boxes...were these owned by someone who loved intricate problems, or an extremely lonely person? Baby gifts in their original wrapping, never given. Canning jars in multiples, light bulbs, winter tires. A wine cellar with an impressive collection hidden behind a messy and cluttered junk room, rarely visited. An unfinished library. A cross-bow. A broken violin. A VCR. Bulk stale chocolates. Mismatched diningware and drawers and drawers of holiday tea towels. Chairs for cats to shred, but nothing for people. Hand-made baby Christmas ornaments. Fake flowers still with the price tags on. Souvenirs from travel neither worn nor displayed. A dog's ashes in an unmarked canister on the mantle.
Our lives speak a strange truth about us through the things we are drawn to, find precious and collect. Even more is said by the things we ignore or leave behind. Are we hoarders? Believers that everything, even junk, has some value and nothing of value should be dismissed? Or minimalists, too burdened by objects to invite them in? Maybe like our parents we are sentimentalists, carrying the objects of generations around with us like human "family attics."
Kristine Trego, PhD, Professor of Classics at Bucknell University and underwater shipwreck archeologist, told a group of us in the Mediterranean about her work on ancient Greek trading vessels off the coast of Turkey. From the most mundane daily objects in a ship's galley she is able to gain insight into the lives of those from long ago. A weighted candle cup. The earliest known "computer" for navigating. Small good luck charms. Food from multiple lands that might indicate the origin of the crew or the ship's trading path. She spoke about our tendency to collect, a passion shared with many other species as it turns out. Inside an almost perfectly preserved amphora on the sea floor they disturbed a small octopus. Inside his "home" were other artifacts from the nearby wreck the divers were interested in recovering. But when they reached in to remove an item, the octopus would reach out and pull it back. This tug of war went on without end, much to the amusement of the divers; finally prompting the crew to make a rule in honor of such tenacity such that no one could eat critters inhabiting the objects of the wreck. Bad karma, the thinking went. These sea dwellers were the "archeologists on site" before we were.
I've often wondered at the public appeal and strange melancholy of thrift stores, yard sales, and auctions that follow the emptying of a house. Perhaps this mix of emotions lies in the exposure of the contents of our jars. What did we cling to in our lives, treasure from the world around us? When we are gone or move on, without this context once-important things seem to diminish and lose their luster, take on a disposable, used fragility. Yet the stories speak. We turn the objects over in our hands, wondering what on earth someone would do with a crate of deer antlers.
for myself,
not sure
who I am, or where,
or, more importantly, why.
- Mary Oliver, from A River Far Away and Long Ago
I was having a conversation with my daughter recently on the many ways her college major in Art History prepared her for medicine. The study of art was a path of joy for her, a genuine, lifelong passion. But an interesting thing stood out for her - the unexpected ways one passion bridged to another. Art History became a foundation for the study of medicine. She spoke about the ways understanding, cataloguing, researching, and appreciating art teaches you to notice details; trains you to retain enormous amounts of relevant, sometimes incomplete data; underscores the importance of provenance (diagnosis); and the subjective role of interpretation. Learning to see, she said, comes before knowing what it is you're looking at.
This thought has stayed with me. Not long ago I had the experience, as many of us have, of helping someone close down a house. The house was on the market, the marriage unfortunately ended, the kids grown and moved away, and the "stuff" of the house worn and unneeded. As I helped to sort and toss, piling things for charity, for the dump, for their kids' storage, I thought about all the ways in which our stuff stands as this great, strange emporium of our lives. An archeology: A personal imprint left behind of those who owned and used these things. A room of more than 200 used 1000-piece puzzle boxes...were these owned by someone who loved intricate problems, or an extremely lonely person? Baby gifts in their original wrapping, never given. Canning jars in multiples, light bulbs, winter tires. A wine cellar with an impressive collection hidden behind a messy and cluttered junk room, rarely visited. An unfinished library. A cross-bow. A broken violin. A VCR. Bulk stale chocolates. Mismatched diningware and drawers and drawers of holiday tea towels. Chairs for cats to shred, but nothing for people. Hand-made baby Christmas ornaments. Fake flowers still with the price tags on. Souvenirs from travel neither worn nor displayed. A dog's ashes in an unmarked canister on the mantle.
Our lives speak a strange truth about us through the things we are drawn to, find precious and collect. Even more is said by the things we ignore or leave behind. Are we hoarders? Believers that everything, even junk, has some value and nothing of value should be dismissed? Or minimalists, too burdened by objects to invite them in? Maybe like our parents we are sentimentalists, carrying the objects of generations around with us like human "family attics."
Kristine Trego, PhD, Professor of Classics at Bucknell University and underwater shipwreck archeologist, told a group of us in the Mediterranean about her work on ancient Greek trading vessels off the coast of Turkey. From the most mundane daily objects in a ship's galley she is able to gain insight into the lives of those from long ago. A weighted candle cup. The earliest known "computer" for navigating. Small good luck charms. Food from multiple lands that might indicate the origin of the crew or the ship's trading path. She spoke about our tendency to collect, a passion shared with many other species as it turns out. Inside an almost perfectly preserved amphora on the sea floor they disturbed a small octopus. Inside his "home" were other artifacts from the nearby wreck the divers were interested in recovering. But when they reached in to remove an item, the octopus would reach out and pull it back. This tug of war went on without end, much to the amusement of the divers; finally prompting the crew to make a rule in honor of such tenacity such that no one could eat critters inhabiting the objects of the wreck. Bad karma, the thinking went. These sea dwellers were the "archeologists on site" before we were.
I've often wondered at the public appeal and strange melancholy of thrift stores, yard sales, and auctions that follow the emptying of a house. Perhaps this mix of emotions lies in the exposure of the contents of our jars. What did we cling to in our lives, treasure from the world around us? When we are gone or move on, without this context once-important things seem to diminish and lose their luster, take on a disposable, used fragility. Yet the stories speak. We turn the objects over in our hands, wondering what on earth someone would do with a crate of deer antlers.
May 15, 2013
QUIET by Susan Cain
"If you're an introvert, find your flow by using your gifts. You have the power of persistence, the tenacity to solve complex problems, and the clear-sightedness to avoid pitfalls that trip others up... So stay true to your own nature. If you like to do things in a slow and steady way, don't let others make you feel as if you have to race. If you enjoy death, don't force yourself to seek breadth. If you prefer single-tasking to multi-tasking, stick to your guns. Being relatively unmoved by rewards gives you incalculable power to go your own way. It's up to you to use that independence to good effect."
- Susan Cain, "Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking," Broadway Paperbacks, 2012.
Susan Cain published "Quiet" in 2012 and her book has sat on my bed table, waiting it's turn in the stack. The title of the book intrigued me and, left me feeling unaccountably defensive. I was, I admit it, reluctant to delve in. Quite right in guessing this unassuming, deeply researched book would shine a spotlight on precisely those aspects of myself I work very hard to "counterbalance."
Yes, I am an introvert; pretending, like thousands of others, to be at ease in the company of many - whether in a packed room, online, giving a presentation, navigating a crowded world. Over the years, roughly since the first grade, I observed our society rewards extroverts - the more social, vocally confident, group-oriented and popular, the better. So what to do if you are quiet, a book-lover, comfortable in solitude, drawn to a best friend not a posse? Fake it.
Susan Cain exposed my game. Her multi-faceted research explains the bias against introverts and how introverts cope in an extroverts' world. How introverts selectively use the tools available (for example, presentation and performance coaching, the written word, and online media) to function comfortably in an increasingly noisy, in-your-face connective culture. Organizational studies for "Quiet" (spanning an examination of the purposeful extroversion championed by the Harvard Business School, to the upper echelons of corporate and military America) exposes key ways the strengths of the introverted personality are frequently maligned or overlooked; the extremes to which extroversion is so highly valued for its confident hubris that others will follow an extrovert, right or wrong. Her work includes studies of reward feedback on human behavior, the effect of dopamine on the brain, and the linkage between the development of social appreciation for the characteristics of extroversion and the push for success in sales. Look a bit deeper however, and studies reveal the unexpected, quiet triumphs of non-charismatic thinkers in what are, after all, results-oriented paradigms.
Cain's work highlights the importance of knowing the difference between introverts and extroverts and appreciating the contributions of both styles of personality development. Her point is to know yourself and play to your strengths. Cain quotes Albert Einstein at the beginning of a chapter, "When Collaboration Kills Creativity" - I am a horse for a single harness, not cut out for tandem or teamwork... Full well do I know that in order to attain any definite goal, it is imperative that one person should do the thinking and commanding. As a writer, an admitted introvert, and the parent of at least one happily introverted child, this declaration of independence in the pursuit of creative achievement has great meaning to me personally. Instead of instructors worrying about whether little Suzy or Johnny interfaces well in elementary school group-time, perhaps we should pay attention instead to what our children prefer to do and how successful their efforts are.
Cain's point is that there are great strengths in what introverts do best that should be encouraged and allowed to flourish. Where would we be without the well known introverts of our world? The Van Goghs, Wozniaks, Einsteins, and Kafkas - even Theodore Geisel (Dr. Suess)... We are a powerful mixture of biology (psychological inclination) and free will - to work and perform in the ways we function best, to collaborate effectively not blindly, to focus on personal effectiveness, not frustration. And above all, to be at peace with ourselves. Cain quotes Anais Nin in her final chapter and it feels fitting to end this review of "Quiet" with Nin's words - Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.
- Susan Cain, "Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking," Broadway Paperbacks, 2012.
Susan Cain published "Quiet" in 2012 and her book has sat on my bed table, waiting it's turn in the stack. The title of the book intrigued me and, left me feeling unaccountably defensive. I was, I admit it, reluctant to delve in. Quite right in guessing this unassuming, deeply researched book would shine a spotlight on precisely those aspects of myself I work very hard to "counterbalance."
Yes, I am an introvert; pretending, like thousands of others, to be at ease in the company of many - whether in a packed room, online, giving a presentation, navigating a crowded world. Over the years, roughly since the first grade, I observed our society rewards extroverts - the more social, vocally confident, group-oriented and popular, the better. So what to do if you are quiet, a book-lover, comfortable in solitude, drawn to a best friend not a posse? Fake it.
Susan Cain exposed my game. Her multi-faceted research explains the bias against introverts and how introverts cope in an extroverts' world. How introverts selectively use the tools available (for example, presentation and performance coaching, the written word, and online media) to function comfortably in an increasingly noisy, in-your-face connective culture. Organizational studies for "Quiet" (spanning an examination of the purposeful extroversion championed by the Harvard Business School, to the upper echelons of corporate and military America) exposes key ways the strengths of the introverted personality are frequently maligned or overlooked; the extremes to which extroversion is so highly valued for its confident hubris that others will follow an extrovert, right or wrong. Her work includes studies of reward feedback on human behavior, the effect of dopamine on the brain, and the linkage between the development of social appreciation for the characteristics of extroversion and the push for success in sales. Look a bit deeper however, and studies reveal the unexpected, quiet triumphs of non-charismatic thinkers in what are, after all, results-oriented paradigms.
Cain's work highlights the importance of knowing the difference between introverts and extroverts and appreciating the contributions of both styles of personality development. Her point is to know yourself and play to your strengths. Cain quotes Albert Einstein at the beginning of a chapter, "When Collaboration Kills Creativity" - I am a horse for a single harness, not cut out for tandem or teamwork... Full well do I know that in order to attain any definite goal, it is imperative that one person should do the thinking and commanding. As a writer, an admitted introvert, and the parent of at least one happily introverted child, this declaration of independence in the pursuit of creative achievement has great meaning to me personally. Instead of instructors worrying about whether little Suzy or Johnny interfaces well in elementary school group-time, perhaps we should pay attention instead to what our children prefer to do and how successful their efforts are.
Cain's point is that there are great strengths in what introverts do best that should be encouraged and allowed to flourish. Where would we be without the well known introverts of our world? The Van Goghs, Wozniaks, Einsteins, and Kafkas - even Theodore Geisel (Dr. Suess)... We are a powerful mixture of biology (psychological inclination) and free will - to work and perform in the ways we function best, to collaborate effectively not blindly, to focus on personal effectiveness, not frustration. And above all, to be at peace with ourselves. Cain quotes Anais Nin in her final chapter and it feels fitting to end this review of "Quiet" with Nin's words - Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.
May 6, 2013
Pillars of Time
In travel, as in most exertions, timing is everything.
- Paul Theroux, "The Pillars of Hercules"
A good book is the kindest of companions. It accompanies one through airports, ferries and waiting, the inevitable delays and rain, cafes and sleepless nights, sunny shores and sweet mornings, shiny as new pennies. I happened upon such a wondrous book - now dog-eared and creased, pages fat from days of arid hikes followed by sea-going humidity, ably ringed in coffee stains - in the travelogue penned by Paul Theroux, THE PILLARS OF HERCULES (Fawcett Books, 1995).
A prolific and gifted novelist and essayist, Theroux is no stranger to journeys of open-minded discovery. His book was everything I wanted in a book to accompany me on a journey through the middle Mediterranean. A study of ancients: from the Spanish Steps of Rome to Pompeii, skimming the Amalfi Coast, touching Capri, exploring ancient Sicily to at last sail on to that pivot of ancient maritime history, the Island of Malta. A "Grand Tour" (within the given limits of modern work schedules) to explore these ancient shores and empires long gone, the temple remnants that stand alone, washed in watercolor sunsets. Prehistory 3600BC to citizens of Pompeii crouching in tombs of volcanic ash; from the artistic and architectural lineage of Greek and Roman temples to the scintillating hidden waters of the Blue Grotto.
Although it is a fat book, a good three inches, the essays span Theroux's explorations beginning at the mouth of Gibraltar following the northern European shores of the Mediterranean, to return to Gibraltar once more; arriving on the opposite shore via the southern Middle Eastern and North African coast (linking the so-called "Pillars of Hercules"). I debated carrying such heft, considered its burden in my pack. But as I explored these ancient lands some 18 years later than Theroux, I found his observations enabled interesting comparisons. Much had changed in the way of modern conflicts and outlook; yet in the geography itself, and its silent mysteries, not much at all. We still stand in the long shadow of the ancients.
I find it absolutely remarkable to come across a ruin older than I can imagine; to speculate on what the object once stood for, outlasted, represents in the modern context. I find it unspeakably touching, for example, that a nameless prehistoric culture on the Island of Malta constructed, with great deliberation, rolling 1200 pound slabs of stone on round boulders of rock, a stone temple with a view to a distant island framed beautifully between the standing pillars of the main altar. I find it moving, in the simplest of contexts, that these people celebrated what is beautiful, the fecund cycles of the equinox, left behind simple stone necklaces and clay figurines. That wherever humans have been, we build, plant, pray and gather around the hearth, leaving our stories behind.
Theroux is a literary wonder: an encyclopedia of literature and history dovetailed with a cynical yet surprisingly genuine ability to be touched, surprised. He is snarky, witty, and absolutely true to the telling detail that delivers the world in glance. I found him a terrific companion on my own curious travels. A point of reference on both modern context and subjective understanding. I will be sharing my own thoughts on my travels in the next few essays, so if you're curious, stay with me over the summer as I ruminate from a 21st Century perspective on the ancient empires.
Which reminds me to note some of the great books I gathered, many from a nifty travel-oriented bookshop, Longitude Books in Plymouth, Minnesota (www.longtiudebooks.com). If you are venturing out yourself, consider any or all of these terrific reads and references:
ON THE SHORES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN, Eric Newby
ON PERSEPHONE'S ISLAND, Mary Taylor Simeti
THE SPIRIT OF MEDITERRANEAN PLACES, Michel Butor
ANCIENT SHORE:DISPATCHES FROM NAPLES, Shirley Hazzard & Francis Steegmuller
D.H. LAWRENCE & ITALY, D.H. Lawrence
ITALY, A TRAVELER'S LITERARY COMPANION, Lawrence Venuti
EVERY DAY IN TUSCANY, SEASONS OF AN ITALIAN LIFE, Francis Mayles
THE MEDITERANNEAN IN HISTORY, edited by David Abulafia
- Paul Theroux, "The Pillars of Hercules"
A good book is the kindest of companions. It accompanies one through airports, ferries and waiting, the inevitable delays and rain, cafes and sleepless nights, sunny shores and sweet mornings, shiny as new pennies. I happened upon such a wondrous book - now dog-eared and creased, pages fat from days of arid hikes followed by sea-going humidity, ably ringed in coffee stains - in the travelogue penned by Paul Theroux, THE PILLARS OF HERCULES (Fawcett Books, 1995).
A prolific and gifted novelist and essayist, Theroux is no stranger to journeys of open-minded discovery. His book was everything I wanted in a book to accompany me on a journey through the middle Mediterranean. A study of ancients: from the Spanish Steps of Rome to Pompeii, skimming the Amalfi Coast, touching Capri, exploring ancient Sicily to at last sail on to that pivot of ancient maritime history, the Island of Malta. A "Grand Tour" (within the given limits of modern work schedules) to explore these ancient shores and empires long gone, the temple remnants that stand alone, washed in watercolor sunsets. Prehistory 3600BC to citizens of Pompeii crouching in tombs of volcanic ash; from the artistic and architectural lineage of Greek and Roman temples to the scintillating hidden waters of the Blue Grotto.
Although it is a fat book, a good three inches, the essays span Theroux's explorations beginning at the mouth of Gibraltar following the northern European shores of the Mediterranean, to return to Gibraltar once more; arriving on the opposite shore via the southern Middle Eastern and North African coast (linking the so-called "Pillars of Hercules"). I debated carrying such heft, considered its burden in my pack. But as I explored these ancient lands some 18 years later than Theroux, I found his observations enabled interesting comparisons. Much had changed in the way of modern conflicts and outlook; yet in the geography itself, and its silent mysteries, not much at all. We still stand in the long shadow of the ancients.
I find it absolutely remarkable to come across a ruin older than I can imagine; to speculate on what the object once stood for, outlasted, represents in the modern context. I find it unspeakably touching, for example, that a nameless prehistoric culture on the Island of Malta constructed, with great deliberation, rolling 1200 pound slabs of stone on round boulders of rock, a stone temple with a view to a distant island framed beautifully between the standing pillars of the main altar. I find it moving, in the simplest of contexts, that these people celebrated what is beautiful, the fecund cycles of the equinox, left behind simple stone necklaces and clay figurines. That wherever humans have been, we build, plant, pray and gather around the hearth, leaving our stories behind.
Theroux is a literary wonder: an encyclopedia of literature and history dovetailed with a cynical yet surprisingly genuine ability to be touched, surprised. He is snarky, witty, and absolutely true to the telling detail that delivers the world in glance. I found him a terrific companion on my own curious travels. A point of reference on both modern context and subjective understanding. I will be sharing my own thoughts on my travels in the next few essays, so if you're curious, stay with me over the summer as I ruminate from a 21st Century perspective on the ancient empires.
Which reminds me to note some of the great books I gathered, many from a nifty travel-oriented bookshop, Longitude Books in Plymouth, Minnesota (www.longtiudebooks.com). If you are venturing out yourself, consider any or all of these terrific reads and references:
ON THE SHORES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN, Eric Newby
ON PERSEPHONE'S ISLAND, Mary Taylor Simeti
THE SPIRIT OF MEDITERRANEAN PLACES, Michel Butor
ANCIENT SHORE:DISPATCHES FROM NAPLES, Shirley Hazzard & Francis Steegmuller
D.H. LAWRENCE & ITALY, D.H. Lawrence
ITALY, A TRAVELER'S LITERARY COMPANION, Lawrence Venuti
EVERY DAY IN TUSCANY, SEASONS OF AN ITALIAN LIFE, Francis Mayles
THE MEDITERANNEAN IN HISTORY, edited by David Abulafia
April 21, 2013
Consoling Broken Hearts
In the last weeks much has happened in America that deeply wounds the heart of all of us. Even if we are distant from the terror attacks at Newtown and the Boston Marathon, from the massive explosions at West, Texas, we feel the pain of the innocent, the victims. Before there is acceptance, before there is forgiveness, there is grieving. I came across this essay from Isadora Duncan from her memoir, My Life, that speaks of inconsolable loss and what we may say or do that offers genuine companionship and solace to those grieving. Duncan lost both of her children in an accident when a taxicab in which they were riding drove off into the water and they were drowned. She then fled to her friend, Eleanora Duse, and stayed with her in Italy.
From MY LIFE
The next morning I drove out to see Duse, who was living in a rose-coloured vila behind a vineyard. She came down a vine covered walk to meet me, like a glorious angel. She took me in her arms and her wonderful eyes beamed upon me such love and tenderness that I felt just as Dante must have felt when, in the "Paradiso," he encounters the Divine Beatrice.
From then on I lived at Viareggio, finding courage from the radiance of Eleanora's eyes. She used to rock me n her arms, consoling my pain, but not only consoling, for she seemed to take my sorrow to her own breast, and I realized that I had not been able to bear thew society of other people, it was because they all played the comedy of trying to cheer me with forgetfulness. Whereas Eleanora said:
"Tell me about Deirdre and Patrick," and made me repeat to her all their little sayings and ways, and show her their photos, which she kissed and cried over. She never said, "Cease to grieve," but she grieved with me, and, for the first time since their death, I felt I was not alone.
- Isadora Duncan, 1878-1927
From MY LIFE
The next morning I drove out to see Duse, who was living in a rose-coloured vila behind a vineyard. She came down a vine covered walk to meet me, like a glorious angel. She took me in her arms and her wonderful eyes beamed upon me such love and tenderness that I felt just as Dante must have felt when, in the "Paradiso," he encounters the Divine Beatrice.
From then on I lived at Viareggio, finding courage from the radiance of Eleanora's eyes. She used to rock me n her arms, consoling my pain, but not only consoling, for she seemed to take my sorrow to her own breast, and I realized that I had not been able to bear thew society of other people, it was because they all played the comedy of trying to cheer me with forgetfulness. Whereas Eleanora said:
"Tell me about Deirdre and Patrick," and made me repeat to her all their little sayings and ways, and show her their photos, which she kissed and cried over. She never said, "Cease to grieve," but she grieved with me, and, for the first time since their death, I felt I was not alone.
- Isadora Duncan, 1878-1927
April 17, 2013
Just Pushing
For deLawd
people say they have a hard time
understanding how I
go on about my business
playing my Ray Charles
hollering at the kids -
seems like my Afro
cut off in some old image
would show I got a long memory
and I come from a line
of black and going on women
who got used to making it through murdered sons
and who grief kept on pushing
who fried chicken
ironed
swept off the back steps
who grief kept
for their still alive sons
for their sons coming
for their sons gone
just pushing
- Lucille Clifton
Today, the haunting notes of YoYo Ma on the cello plays in elegy, the faces and pure voices of the Boston Childrens Chorus rise in song, carrying words they barely understand but certainly feel in the gospel hymnal "To the Mountain." Today we talk about honoring our lost and commit to moving on. The voice of the cello cries "Why?" The prayer surrenders and accepts. The faces of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters turn away. And those of us who can go on, do. We rise and work, we take the children to school, we load the washing machine, chop green beans, hug our husbands and wives and kids because we know, really know, how fragile the thin thread is.
I run today through the cold bright sun. The new green limns the trees. The robin tucks the last straw into her nest. I run because I can and perhaps another cannot. I run because each day it is a gift to do so. I run for Boston, for me, for you. The thin fragile thread. I run because it is my way to pray. My heart beats "Why?"
Feet just pushing.
people say they have a hard time
understanding how I
go on about my business
playing my Ray Charles
hollering at the kids -
seems like my Afro
cut off in some old image
would show I got a long memory
and I come from a line
of black and going on women
who got used to making it through murdered sons
and who grief kept on pushing
who fried chicken
ironed
swept off the back steps
who grief kept
for their still alive sons
for their sons coming
for their sons gone
just pushing
- Lucille Clifton
Today, the haunting notes of YoYo Ma on the cello plays in elegy, the faces and pure voices of the Boston Childrens Chorus rise in song, carrying words they barely understand but certainly feel in the gospel hymnal "To the Mountain." Today we talk about honoring our lost and commit to moving on. The voice of the cello cries "Why?" The prayer surrenders and accepts. The faces of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters turn away. And those of us who can go on, do. We rise and work, we take the children to school, we load the washing machine, chop green beans, hug our husbands and wives and kids because we know, really know, how fragile the thin thread is.
I run today through the cold bright sun. The new green limns the trees. The robin tucks the last straw into her nest. I run because I can and perhaps another cannot. I run because each day it is a gift to do so. I run for Boston, for me, for you. The thin fragile thread. I run because it is my way to pray. My heart beats "Why?"
Feet just pushing.
